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"No, Arthur, think about it, son." Dutch's voice was low and calculating. "A man on the inside. Someone who could gain access to information about shipments, patrols, warrants, and any valuable information. Also, someone who can steer trouble and attention away from us."
Hosea nodded slowly. "It's risky, but the payoff..."
Arthur scowled. "And if he gets caught?"
Caleb met his gaze. "Then I'm the only one who swings. The gang stays clean. Don't worry about that."
Dutch clapped his hands together. "Then it's settled. You take the job, Caleb. If the sheriff trusts you, use it. Don't get caught. Don't overplay your hand. But remember to report back to us regularly."
Caleb nodded. "Understood."
Hosea smirked. "Deputy Thorne. Has a nice ring to it."
Arthur still looked uneasy but didn't argue further.
As the meeting broke up, Caleb stepped out of the tent, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. Arthur followed, catching up to him near the hitching post.
"You sure about this?" Arthur asked quietly.
Caleb glanced at him. "You ain't?"
Arthur sighed. "It's a hell of a risk. But... I get why Dutch likes it." He shook his head. "Just don't get too comfortable wearin' that star."
Caleb smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it Arthur."
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and walked off, leaving Caleb to his thoughts.
He could see that Arthur was still on the fence.
The man didn't say anything more, didn't try to contradict Dutch word, not out loud anyway, but Caleb had spent enough time around Arthur to read the storms behind his eyes. He didn't pace or chew his lip or mutter to himself like some others would.
No, Arthur's unease came through in the small things, the way his jaw clenched tighter than it needed to, the way he kept his hands near his belt like he was waiting to draw, and the way he looked at Caleb, not like a man seeing a comrade headed into danger, but like a man seeing a friend walk into fire with a smile on his face.
He hadn't always been like this.
In Caleb's early days after joining the gang, Arthur was more straightforward, keep your head down, get the job done, don't question Dutch too hard unless you wanted a long winded speech.
But now... now Caleb saw something else in him. The gain used to win outright. Dutch said it was a good idea, and that was that. But today, Arthur had fought. Internally, sure, but the resistance had been stronger. Sharper. He was wrestling with something. Morality, maybe. Fear. Attachment. Caleb didn't know.
But he appreciated it.
Even if Arthur didn't say it directly, it meant something that he cared.
Objective reached. Caleb thought as he made his way back to Morgan at the hitching post. Dutch had signed off on the plan. Hosea too. Arthur had voiced his doubts, and while he hadn't stopped it, that in itself was a victory of a different sort. All three leaders had been addressed.
Caleb mounted up, the saddle familiar and comfortable beneath him. He gave Morgan a gentle pat on the neck before flicking the reins. As he guided her away from the main stretch of camp, he spotted Lenny still on guard duty near the outer tree line.
"Lenny," Caleb called.
The younger man turned, rifle resting across his lap.
"Heading out again, Caleb?" Lenny asked.
"Back to Valentine," Caleb replied. "See you again."
Lenny gave him a short nod. "Keep your head down, Caleb. Don't go make trouble like we were back on the saloon."
Caleb chuckled, shaking his head as he rode off.
The sun was still high when Valentine came into view, the familiar haze of dust and distant chatter floating through the air like background noise. It would've been easy to ride straight to the sheriff's office and give his answer. But Caleb wasn't about to make it seem that easy.
Let it breathe. Let it look like a hard decision.
Instead, he steered Morgan toward the saloon. He hitched her to the post outside and gave her one more pat before stepping up the porch and pushing through the batwing doors.
The usual scent of sawdust, whiskey, and tobacco hung thick in the air. A few patrons were already deep into their cups, a couple of card tables in the corner occupied by ranchers, drifters, and those with more money than common sense.
Perfect.
Caleb made his way to the poker table on his right and in the poker table in the corner had three players already, a grizzled trapper, a dandy in a too clean suit, and a ranch hand with dirt under his nails.
"Seat open?" Caleb asked, thumbing his hat back.
The dandy smirked. "If you've got the stomach for it."
Caleb dropped himself into a chair with a casual air, flashing a small smile, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket. "Deal me in."
What followed was five hours of calculated plays and quiet observation. Caleb's Poker (Lvl 2) skill served him well, but he pushed further, reading tells, counting cards, and bluffing with precision, combining his poker skill with Past Life Memory (MAX) skill.
The trapper folded first, grumbling about "damn people with luck." The ranch hand lasted longer but eventually threw in his cards after Caleb cleaned him out with a well timed all in.
Only the dandy remained, his smirk long gone.
"Final hand," the man said, tossing his last 10 dollars into the pot.
Caleb matched it without hesitation.
The reveal was beautiful, Caleb's full house against the dandy's measly two pair. As Caleb raked in the chips, the dandy stood so fast his chair toppled.
"Cheating bastard!"
The saloon quieted. Caleb didn't flinch. "Got proof?"
The dandy's hand twitched toward his pistol, then stopped as Mr. Douglas materialized from behind the bar counter, shotgun resting casually on his shoulder.
"Take the loss, Theodore," the bartender said mildly.
With a final glare, the dandy stormed out.
By nightfall, Caleb had cycled through seven opponents, his winnings growing steadily. He took breaks only to eat, lamb fry chops and two beers totaling 12 dollars and 50 cents, but always returned to the table.
And then, as the clock struck ten, it happened.
[Poker has reached Level 3!]
The knowledge settled into Caleb's mind like a well shuffled deck. Probabilities clearer. Tells more obvious. Even the way he handled the cards felt smoother.
His sudden winning streak didn't go unnoticed.
"That's it!" A red faced farmer slammed his hands on the table. "No more! This ain't natural!"
Murmurs of agreement spread. A group of regulars banded together, pointing accusingly.
"Ban him from the tables!"
"Damn cardsharp!"
Caleb leaned back, swirling the last of his beer. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Tell you what," he said, voice cutting through the grumbling. "Any man who can clear my pot in a single round gets 150 dollars from me. Right then and there."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Men scrambled to find "real players." A gray haired gambler was dragged from the bar. A well dressed stranger suddenly found himself the center of attention. Even several people claimed he had "a foresight."
Mr. Douglas finally intervened, banging a bottle on the counter. "Enough! From now on, we'll hold a daily tournament. Winner takes the pot and a shot at Thorne's 150 dollars."
The saloon erupted in cheers.
Caleb just chuckled, stacking his winnings, 72 dollars and 37 cents profit after food, as the crowd buzzed around him.
Perfect.
Now he had a reason to keep coming back. More games meant more practice. More practice meant leveling up further. And if he lost occasionally? Well, 150 dollars was a small price to pay for sharpening a skill that could save his life at a high stakes table someday Saint Denis.
Caleb didn't linger at the saloon after the poker frenzy finally died down. With the last cheer still echoing behind him, he climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Valentine Hotel, heavy pockets jingling softly with the weight of his winnings. When he unlocked the door to his room, a sigh of relief slipped out before he even realized it.
The familiar creak of the floorboards, the faint scent of old wood and fresh linens, he'd come to appreciate the peace this little room offered. A temporary fortress in a world full of chaos.
He shrugged off his coat and laid his hat on the side table. The fatigue of the day settled in slowly, a deep, pleasant exhaustion that came from mental labor more than physical.
Poker had a way of draining you if you played it right, reading people, adapting strategy, maintaining the illusion of confidence. And Caleb had played it right.
Stripping down to his shirt and trousers, he leaned over the basin, splashed cold water onto his face, and dried off with a small towel. Then he collapsed into bed with the kind of sigh that only came after a long, fruitful day.
For a while, the world outside murmured on, boots thumping on the porch, horses neighing in the distance, faint piano chords from the saloon, but none of it stuck. Caleb Thorne was already asleep before the moon had reached its peak.
The next morning greeted him with golden sunlight streaming through the windows. Caleb awoke feeling rested, the memories of the previous night still crisp in his mind.
He rolled out of bed, washed up quickly, then pulled on his gear. His gunbelt came first, always first. The leather was worn, comfortable, familiar like a second skin. After buckling it across his waist, he reached for the outfit he'd recovered the night before from the hotel clerk, his Vaquero outfit.
Stepping outside the room and heading down the stairs, he exited the hotel, the town of Valentine came to life around him.
The clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the distant shout of a shopkeeper, and the rising chorus of crows above the rooftops. Caleb took a slow breath. The sun was low but already warming the earth, casting long shadows across the dirt roads.
His boots crunched softly on the gravel as he made his way down the main stretch toward the Sheriff's Office. The town was familiar, almost comfortable now, but Caleb's mind was focused on what came next.
Sheriff Malloy had made his offer. Caleb had let the idea simmer overnight, let Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur's words sink in. Now was the time to act.
He pushed open the door to the Sheriff's Office with the same casual confidence he carried at the poker table.
And stopped.
Inside, Sheriff Malloy wasn't alone. A woman stood across from him, her back partially turned toward the door. But Caleb didn't need to see her face to recognize her. Something clicked in his head, one of the Red Dead Redemption 2 cutscenes that had once been background noise in his old life, now vivid and real in this new one.
Moira Calthorpe.
Her voice. Her posture. That dress with the pale embroidery. It was all there, just like in the game. And his Past Life Memory skill filled in the blanks instantly.
Moira Calthorpe, the woman who had been having an affair with Sheriff Malloy. In the game, her ending was hidden one, a voice over conversation never meant to be seen in person.
But Caleb knew what happened. Moira tried to leave the affair, and Sheriff Malloy didn't take it well. He snapped. In a moment of rage, he choked her to death in the second floor of the Sheriff's office.
Caleb's sudden appearance startled them both. Moira spun around, her expression first tense, then quickly masked in surprise, her gloved hands tightening around her purse.
Sheriff Malloy straightened up, his eyes narrowing before smoothing into a practiced smile. "Oh, hello there, son," Sheriff Malloy said, clearing his throat. "Didn't expect to see visitors this early, especially you, this early in the morning." His voice was too loud, too jovial. "Well, uh... Mrs. Calthorpe here was just leaving."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 6/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 2)
- Rifle (Lvl 2)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 1)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 2)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 3)
- Poker (Lvl 2) -> (Lvl 3)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 1)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lv1)
- Persuasion (Lvl 2)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
Money: 1268 dollars and 82 cents and 2 gold nuggets
Bank: 320 dollars, 4 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets